Maybe He's Not (1/1)
Title: Maybe He's Not
Author: somehowunbroken
Fandom: SGA
Characters: John
Word Count: 774
Rating: PG
Summary: For hc_bingo: 'body dysmorphic disorder.'
Notes: Sweet mercy, this prompt gave me fits upon fits. I've written three different stories for it. This is the closest I think I've come to actually hitting the prompt.
It started when he was in the third grade, and Luke Freidan had joking called him a Keebler Elf.
John had laughed, or he’d tried to; he spent an hour in front of the mirror that night, locked in the bathroom, studying himself this way and that, before he decided that it wasn’t that bad, really. Sure, his ears were a little pointed on top, but he didn’t really look like an elf. Not really.
Still, the next time his mother wanted to take him for a haircut, he resisted. The edges of his hair had grown down more, and it covered the tips of his ears, falling down and covering what he didn’t want seen, what he didn’t want to be mocked for.
In high school, he tried to go the other way with it, bringing cookies to his friends and learning to wiggle his ears. Maybe, just maybe, if he drew attention to his strangely pointed ears, it wouldn’t matter so much. If he was laughing with them, then they weren’t laughing at him.
The Spock jokes started then, though, and it was a little too much again. John stopped bringing cookies to school, the hair grew out to cover his ears once more, and the jokes started to hurt a little more, though he never let that be known.
He ignored them; he ignored everything. John focused on freedom, on getting away from the mockery that they never meant to hurt him, and the metaphor became reality when he was accepted into the Air Force Academy. He cut his ties to friends, to family, to the Earth itself, and soared.
John liked the Air Force. There was a lot going on, a lot to learn and a lot to do, and it left little time for him or anyone else to comment on his appearance. Even so, old habits die hard, and John kept his hair just this side of the regulation line, using his natural ability to charm those around him to keep himself mostly out of trouble.
Nobody was complaining about his ears when he saved their lives, swooping in with his chopper to scoop them up from behind enemy lines. Likewise, his ears never came up when he was being chastised, nearly demoted, banished from a war he could help in to the frigid end of the Earth because of a stupid mistake.
In Antarctica, with nothing better to do to pass the time, John’s worries returned, intensified. They only increased when he met Rodney McKay, whose own neuroses certainly outweighed John’s own, but who reminded John of himself, of how he sometimes hated things about himself, hated what other people said about him, hated what he imagined they thought. He let his hair grow long again, told himself it was to keep out the cold, and spent as much time as he could up in the chopper, where the headset kept his ears from sight.
Then his world changed, and John found himself in another universe, easy-as-you-please. He stepped through an upright puddle of water and found himself millions of light years away from Earth, and he thought, finally. Maybe they’d find aliens here, ones with huge ears or long noses or purple skin, and he wouldn’t feel like a pointy-eared freak.
As it turned out, the aliens were normal (except the green-skinned ones), but again there was too much going on for him or anyone else to worry about appearances. Until one day, after they’d saved another village, been run after and shot at and nearly killed, and the villagers celebrated with food and wine and dancing girls. One of them took a liking to John - well, three of them did, really, but who’s counting - and sat in his lap, feeding him grapes one by one as he grinned at McKay.
“Oh my God,” McKay griped, watching the scene. “We’re Star Trek, oh my God.”
And John froze, the taunting coming back,. He waited, listening for the inevitable comparison, but when McKay continued, it wasn’t with the words that John was expecting.
“You, you’re some kind of - of Captain Kirk, with all the women flocking to you because they have this misguided notion that you’re a hero!” His indignation was almost palpable, and John slowly smirked, accepting another grape from the woman sprawled across his legs.
Kirk might not have been the comparison he was expecting, but he could certainly get used to it. William Shatner didn’t have pointy ears.
And nobody had brought it up since they’d gotten here. Nobody but John had thought of it, mentioned it in years, so maybe he didn’t, either.
Author: somehowunbroken
Fandom: SGA
Characters: John
Word Count: 774
Rating: PG
Summary: For hc_bingo: 'body dysmorphic disorder.'
Notes: Sweet mercy, this prompt gave me fits upon fits. I've written three different stories for it. This is the closest I think I've come to actually hitting the prompt.
It started when he was in the third grade, and Luke Freidan had joking called him a Keebler Elf.
John had laughed, or he’d tried to; he spent an hour in front of the mirror that night, locked in the bathroom, studying himself this way and that, before he decided that it wasn’t that bad, really. Sure, his ears were a little pointed on top, but he didn’t really look like an elf. Not really.
Still, the next time his mother wanted to take him for a haircut, he resisted. The edges of his hair had grown down more, and it covered the tips of his ears, falling down and covering what he didn’t want seen, what he didn’t want to be mocked for.
In high school, he tried to go the other way with it, bringing cookies to his friends and learning to wiggle his ears. Maybe, just maybe, if he drew attention to his strangely pointed ears, it wouldn’t matter so much. If he was laughing with them, then they weren’t laughing at him.
The Spock jokes started then, though, and it was a little too much again. John stopped bringing cookies to school, the hair grew out to cover his ears once more, and the jokes started to hurt a little more, though he never let that be known.
He ignored them; he ignored everything. John focused on freedom, on getting away from the mockery that they never meant to hurt him, and the metaphor became reality when he was accepted into the Air Force Academy. He cut his ties to friends, to family, to the Earth itself, and soared.
John liked the Air Force. There was a lot going on, a lot to learn and a lot to do, and it left little time for him or anyone else to comment on his appearance. Even so, old habits die hard, and John kept his hair just this side of the regulation line, using his natural ability to charm those around him to keep himself mostly out of trouble.
Nobody was complaining about his ears when he saved their lives, swooping in with his chopper to scoop them up from behind enemy lines. Likewise, his ears never came up when he was being chastised, nearly demoted, banished from a war he could help in to the frigid end of the Earth because of a stupid mistake.
In Antarctica, with nothing better to do to pass the time, John’s worries returned, intensified. They only increased when he met Rodney McKay, whose own neuroses certainly outweighed John’s own, but who reminded John of himself, of how he sometimes hated things about himself, hated what other people said about him, hated what he imagined they thought. He let his hair grow long again, told himself it was to keep out the cold, and spent as much time as he could up in the chopper, where the headset kept his ears from sight.
Then his world changed, and John found himself in another universe, easy-as-you-please. He stepped through an upright puddle of water and found himself millions of light years away from Earth, and he thought, finally. Maybe they’d find aliens here, ones with huge ears or long noses or purple skin, and he wouldn’t feel like a pointy-eared freak.
As it turned out, the aliens were normal (except the green-skinned ones), but again there was too much going on for him or anyone else to worry about appearances. Until one day, after they’d saved another village, been run after and shot at and nearly killed, and the villagers celebrated with food and wine and dancing girls. One of them took a liking to John - well, three of them did, really, but who’s counting - and sat in his lap, feeding him grapes one by one as he grinned at McKay.
“Oh my God,” McKay griped, watching the scene. “We’re Star Trek, oh my God.”
And John froze, the taunting coming back,. He waited, listening for the inevitable comparison, but when McKay continued, it wasn’t with the words that John was expecting.
“You, you’re some kind of - of Captain Kirk, with all the women flocking to you because they have this misguided notion that you’re a hero!” His indignation was almost palpable, and John slowly smirked, accepting another grape from the woman sprawled across his legs.
Kirk might not have been the comparison he was expecting, but he could certainly get used to it. William Shatner didn’t have pointy ears.
And nobody had brought it up since they’d gotten here. Nobody but John had thought of it, mentioned it in years, so maybe he didn’t, either.